


What Do You Get When You Fall In Love?

by kittensmctavish



Series: Buzzfeed Soulmates AU [10]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Break Up, Haircuts, No Dialogue, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:36:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensmctavish/pseuds/kittensmctavish
Summary: Nothing’s really special about the work day until Ryan gets a phone call.(Or: note the tags.)





	What Do You Get When You Fall In Love?

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, don't worry. I hate me too.
> 
> Second of all, reader!insert is feeling more and more like a straight-up OC than a reader insert. Considering just...giving her a name and letting her be her own thing. If anyone thinks this is a good/terrible idea, please let me know and I will or will not do ALL of the editing.
> 
> Third of all, don't worry. I hate me too.
> 
> Fourth of all, title comes from the song "I'll Never Fall In Love Again" from the musical "Promises, Promises", which nearly made it into the fic, but I decided the use of another song was more apt and more sad.
> 
> Finally, don't worry, I hate me too.

Since posting your karaoke performance of “No One Else”, you’d kept your YouTube channel going.

You’d spoken to the Buzzfeed higher-ups about it, emphasizing that you wanted to keep it going for fun rather than a second means of income. You liked singing, and people seemed to enjoy your singing. YouTube provided a good outlet for that. Furthermore, your sister often either accompanied you, or was the featured performer in certain videos (like when she performed “The Prelude” and you did the amazing rant from “Preludes” alongside her playing), so really, it was yours AND your sister’s channel.

Besides, it was a fun way to introduce people to all the “weird musicals you like that are weird”. And to get ideas for other songs to cover, either from your coworkers or the comments section. They also amuse you with their collab demands (the most prominent being Pentatonix and/or Avi Kaplan, thanks to your sister’s infatuations; anyone involved with any Dave Malloy show ever, for obvious reasons; and Dan Avidan and/or Ninja Sex Party, because you’ve mentioned or referenced Game Grumps more than a few times on Instagram). You appreciate their suggestions, but they’re not likely to ever happen.

Jen, of course, loves anything you covered. Sara, as you’d predicted, loved “Starchild”. Shane keeps making fruitless demands for a cover of a Hotdaga song. Adam always tells you that he’s more than happy to help you film if you ever want to branch out for more intricate camerawork (or an actual music-video-style thing at some point). Ryan says he can’t really choose a favorite—you kind of bowl him over with anything you post. (He passes word along that Helen’s favorite is the OG, “No One Else”; she, too, gets a lovely dreamy romantic feeling from the moon that Natasha does.)

You actually even get your first request, which is fun. You’re a little nervous to do it, but also excited. You can only hope the requester will be pleased with the result.

***

Nothing’s really special about the work day until Ryan gets a phone call. Helen has an appointment today (not for anything life-threatening or serious, but he still asked her to check in when the appointment was over). So when he picks up his buzzing phone and walks to…somewhere private, you can only assume, because you figure it’s Helen calling.

It’s not until Ryan comes rushing back, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and clumsily grabbing for his keys with the other hand that you turn away from your computer screens, pulling your headphones away from your ears. Shane’s already standing, reaching to help Ryan pick up his fallen keys, asking what’s happened. From what you can catch in the frenzy, Helen passed out. Ryan needs to get to her ASAP, find out just what is wrong.

He’s gone before you can say anything encouraging or supportive, though you and Shane exchange a worried look. You turn back to your desk as Shane logs off Ryan’s computer and says something about letting your manager know what’s happening. You nod. And then all you can do is hope that whatever is happening, it’s not life-shattering or terminal or…just terrible.

The air is slightly tense in the afternoon, Shane glancing at his phone more than he usually does, waiting for word from Ryan. Sara’s moved her stuff over to your area to work, for moral support. You’re getting stuff done, but it’s the stuff that doesn’t require a lot of thought because your mind is…preoccupied. Like, you try to edit a video, but you’re zoning out at your screen more than actually making any progress.

It’s maybe the third time Shane’s phone buzzes through the day that sends his chair almost knocking over to the ground. That’s how quickly he pushes himself away from his desk as he answers his phone and says Ryan’s name, practically sprinting out of the office. You look over at Sara, her forehead creased with concern. You can only hope for good news.

When Shane comes back, a slightly shell-shocked expression on his face, your hopes dwindle…it’s not the face of good news. Sara jumps up to help Shane sit down, but he waves the help away distractedly. You ask if it’s Bad. Shane begins to answer yes, then switches to no, and sort of…stops…like he’s trying to process. Sara sits back in her chair, rolling next to you, as Shane looks from the ground at both of you and says four words that you never expected to hear:

“Helen has a soulmate.”

***

A dermatologist from the Bay area. Helen had met him for the first time, strangely enough, in Chicago, on business travel. Their groups had met at a business lunch, and they’d sat at the same table. He’d noticed a mole on the top of her foot. He hadn’t been checking her out, he swears, but he couldn’t turn the work brain off sometimes, and while it was probably nothing to be concerned about, the mole WAS large enough that he recommended she get it checked out. Helen said she would…and since she knew HE was a dermatologist, why not him? He WAS stationed in California.

She’d gone in for a full body check. Best to get everything checked, she’d decided, just in case. Especially her scalp, the dermatologist had said, people always forget the scalp and moles have a habit of hiding.

As do marks.

Helen’s mark was on her scalp. Buried underneath her thick black hair. The female assistant who’d been doing the check had figured she’d find maybe a freckle or two. Instead shocked to find a red shape tinged with gold flecks. She hadn’t said anything to Helen at first, but moved her hair about to get an idea of the shape. Helen hadn’t been too assured when she heard a ‘click’ of a camera taking pictures of…SOMETHING…on her scalp…followed by the assistant called for the doctor to come take a look. She’d been even less assured when HIS fingers froze in her hair.

It was only when he withdrew them and tugged the cuff of his shirt up that she saw a mark in the shape of a crescent moon – the same one she’d caught a glimpse of at that business lunch when he’s reached out to examine the mole on her foot – shifting from the color of a freckle to red and gold. And she looked up at him, his eyes filled with shock and tears and hope and something resembling adoration. And her eyes flickered to the picture the assistant was bringing up on the screen…of her hair pushed away from her scalp…revealing that same red-and-gold crescent moon.

She didn’t know. She’d NEVER known. She’s not even sure her parents ever knew, she’d always had so much hair even as a baby, oh god, Ryan, how was she going to tell RYAN, she’s so confused and stunned and heartbroken…but also…happy…?

She remembered saying as much, trying to breathe as she spoke, the room spinning, her dermatologist calling her name, calling for his assistant as her vision grew fuzzy…

***

Ryan’s fine. He insists he’s fine.

He and Helen had been sort of…growing apart, anyway…work travel will do that to people. She’d be away when he was home and vice versa.

Besides, it’ll be good for her to be alone to get time to know her dermatologist. Break the news to her parents. It’ll be better if he’s not there for it.

Yes, the conversation had been long and full of tears on both ends, but it was better this way.

Besides, it’s not like she knew and strung him along for the years they’d been together. (Your ankle twitches.)

So he’s fine. He insists he fine.

He helps her load the U-Haul the day she moves out. He throws himself into Unsolved with all his enthusiasm. He buys a guitar, starts taking lessons. Hangs out with his roommates from college, his bros. Goes to the gym a lot.

A month passes. And he’s fine. He insists he’s fine. Totally fine.

You’re never quite sure. Shane’s never quite sure. You keep waiting for something a drop—a pin, a penny, a shoe. Waiting for something to snap. To break. Any time something goes slightly wrong at work. Any time one of Ryan’s digs at Shane’s skepticism or the Hotdaga is just a little TOO mean. It’s like holding your breath.

But he insists he’s fine. Totally fine.

***

The day that you FINALLY have time to edit together the fan request for your channel also happens to be the day that your apartment building is being power-hosed. Those outer walls gotta get cleaned some time, but dear god, it makes concentration IMPOSSIBLE…they’re SO FUCKING LOUD.

Your sister’s busy for the better part of the day, and you know Shane and Sara are on something Sara’s dubbed a “date-venture”. Adam’s in Japan filming the new season of “Worth It” (and, you’re assuming, finding all of the Pocky, per your request).

So you call Ryan, asking if you can edit in peace at his place. You’ll bring him a milkshake if he says yes.

Half an hour later, you’re at his doorstep with your laptop, your headphones, and two milkshakes.

As he shows you to the living room, Ryan apologizes for the state of things; he still hasn’t quite reorganized following Helen’s move. (It’s a weird juxtaposition between sparse and cluttered; there are some boxes stacked in a corner, and a lot of the walls are pretty bare.) If you need anything, he’ll be in his room playing guitar. He’s not being antisocial or anything; he just figures you want to edit in solitude (not necessarily peace, though, given his guitar skills…or lack thereof, he claims). You get it. Besides, your headphones are pretty good at blocking out most outside noise (you know, asides from abominably loud power hoses), so he can play to his heart’s content…besides, it’s HIS place and YOU’RE the one encroaching upon his day off. Hardly an encroachment, he assures you.

With a sip of his milkshake, Ryan’s down a hall, presumably in the direction of his bedroom. You settle on to a part of a couch, open your laptop, plug in your headphones, and get to editing.

It never takes THAT long to edit your videos…just making sure the audio balance is good, that your voice doesn’t drown out the instrumentals and vice versa (or, if it’s something acappella, making sure soprano!you doesn’t drown out alto!you or anything like that). Maybe adding in a nice transition to another camera angle, if you filmed more than one take or from more than one camera (for this particular video, that was the case…after all, it’s your first request, so why not be a little fancier with technique). Regardless, you get in a good zone and edit for…you’re not sure how long, but you make considerable amounts of progress. Progress you couldn’t have made had you been stuck at home with the siren song of power hoses.

You don’t hear any guitar, either. Either Ryan plays quietly by default, is playing quietly so as not to disturb you, his door is closed and that blocks out most of the sound, or your headphones are just that good. You doubt it’s the latter, given how your sister’s startled you out of many a zone by bellowing your name.

So you’re snapped out of your zone when you hear…something. Or at least sense or imagine that you hear something. You look up from your laptop and lift your headphones away from your ears. You hear Ryan mutter a curse. You save your work, set your laptop on the coffee table in front of you, rise from the couch, and call Ryan’s name in a question.

No indication that he’s heard you. Just another, louder repeated curse, followed by a clatter. You head down the hall to a door that’s cracked open a little bit, light streaming into the hall. You gently push the door open and say his name again.

What you see if a guitar laying face down on the ground, a string curling beneath and away from it, as Ryan sort of…paces his room as best he can, running his hands through his hair. You begin to ask what happened when he says he’s fine, he just…was trying to tune the fucking guitar and he couldn’t get it right and he kept forcing and forcing and then the string just fucking SNAPPED and he just…

He’s not watching where he’s pacing because his shoe nudges against the guitar, causing it to skid with an unpleasant, probably-not-good sound, only bringing up another FUCK and a godDAMN IT and he looks like he’s about to punch a fucking wall for a moment.

He couldn’t fix it. He tried to fix it and he fucking couldn’t. He should have been able to fix it, but he can’t.

Anger and frustration melts into a defeated sadness as his footsteps falter and a small shuddery sigh escapes him. His face crumples, and he brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, thumbs pressing at his eyes to hold back the tears you see slipping. You reach out to take his arm and gently lower him to sit on the edge of his bed before his knees can give way. Maybe you give his arm a small squeeze before your hand slips away, you’re not sure, but whatever it is in the gesture, it results in a sob.

You stand, unsure. You’re fairly certain Ryan’s heard enough variations of “It’s okay to cry/be upset/talk about how you feel” in the weeks since Helen’s mark was discovered. And he’s clearly not okay, so you’re not going to ask if he is.

Instead, you reach down for the guitar, lifting it carefully by the neck and turning it over to assess the damage. You look around on the floor for the bridge pin, and find it near Ryan’s sneaker collection. Picking it up, you sit next to Ryan on the bed, checking the ball end on the loose string, finding it intact. Ryan looks over at you, wiping tears away, but eyes still watery.

The string isn’t broken. Ball end’s still intact, you show him. He probably just turned the tuning key a bit too much and the pressure caused the string to snap away under the pressure. But it’s still in one piece. it can be fixed.

Making sure he can see what you’re doing, you set the string in place with the bridge pin and reach up to turn the tuning key slowly to tighten it—not too much, just enough to set it in place. You’ll let him tune it later, in full. But go gentle on the guitar when tuning, you tell him. It can only take so much pressure before things begin to snap.

It’s a double meaning. The whole fucking thing is, has been since you walked in. You know it. Ryan knows it. Neither of you are about to admit as much. So instead, you slip your phone out of your pocket and click it open, Ryan watching and wiping at a stray tear as you scroll through photos until you find the one you’re looking for.

He’s seen it before…well…half of it. It’s that photo of you in “Annie On My Mind” from college. But you’re on one side of the screen now. On the other side can be seen the person at whom you’d been smiling with such adoration. Another young woman, in a cape and jeans. long black hair, a sweet smile, rosy lips.

You scroll to another photo. You from Halloween in college, dressed as Jane Lane. The same young woman is at your side, wearing large glasses, an auburn wig, and a green jacket. She’s attempting to appear nonplussed as you kiss her cheek, but a smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

Another photo. From a production you hadn’t posted. You and her in Regency-era dress and hair, her hands at your waists as your hands cup her face, your foreheads resting together as you both smile, one of those smiles where it’s so obvious that a kiss followed the captured moment. An adaptation of “Emma”, you explain, where Emma’s realization at the end was that she’d always been in love with Harriet, not Mr. Knightley.

Ryan’s eyes dart back and forth between the photos and you. You don’t really NEED to tell him who she is…he seems to have put the pieces together.

It was kind of funny, in retrospect—falling for your costar in a staging of a story where two young women fall in love. There’d been hesitation, you recall. That it was residual…being-in-character-ness or whatever. (Months, several dates, and more than a few kisses later, it was clear that affections on both sides were genuine.) You’d loved her more than you thought you’d possibly ever love someone. Shared so much with her, so many firsts…she was the first person who made you truly happy. Completely, utterly fuck-everything-and-everyone-else happy.

You two graduated, moved back to your respective homes, did the long-distance thing, tried to meet up at least once a month…

…and then one month she came to visit, it was with news. And someone else’s hand in her own…someone else’s ring on her finger.

Her soulmate’s.

You’d both known about each other marks. Tried not to think about them too much, treasure the time you’d had together, understood that meeting could happen and things would maybe have to end. Neither of you cared much at the time, tried to push back the inevitable.

It didn’t stop the end from being any less tear-filled. On both sides. And she couldn’t suppress just how WONDERFUL her soulmate was and hated how much she was hurting you with this news. But you understood. You were happy for her. It didn’t hurt YOU any less (and Christ, did it hurt…). And it wasn’t like she was without a bit of heartbreak, either. She had loved you.

Ryan listens to your traipses down memory lane, the little hitches and tremors in your voice at certain key points, watches you stare down at your phone, at certain pictures of you and her…

…and you look up at him, keeping your expression neutral.

Ryan’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape in that way when one is trying to find the words to say. Is it because yeah, you actually DO know what he’s going through? Is it because this is the first he’s heard of you having ever been with anyone? Is it because that anyone was a woman? Is it because you’re willingly sharing another piece of your past with him even though he KNOWS you hate talking about your life pre-Buzzfeed? All of the above?

Regardless, he seems at a loss for words.

You weren’t going to say before that you knew exactly what he was going through because he would have rolled his eyes and said please, you have NO idea what he’s feeling.

But…okay, you don’t know EXACTLY what he’s going through—your situation is slightly different from his—but you DO know what it feels like when a relationship ends when your significant other finds their soulmate.

How it sucks. A lot. And for a while you sort of feel like you never want to date or find romance again and stare at your own mark and just wonder…when…why…why couldn’t SHE have been yours? Why couldn’t you have been hers? All the what if’s and why’s.

But you know one day that’ll be you. You’ll know that same transcendent joy of “I have found my person”. Could be tomorrow, could be next week, could be years from now, but the wait will have been worth every moment.

How can you know that? Ryan’s avoiding eye contact, voice sunken into a sullen tone.

For a brief moment, you consider it. Consider rolling up the leg of your jeans, rolling down your sock, and showing him the ghost you know he bears because you bear it, too. That you’re his person and he’s yours. It’s tempting.

…but it’s too soon. Too raw. You’ll come across as too eager.

…instead, you recall having attended her wedding (even singing at the reception, per her request and wish). And watching wife and wife share their first dance. And just how…HAPPY she was. She’d been happy with you, but you’d never seen her happier than she was with her soulmate.

Ryan’s still staring at the ground, biting his lip. He sighs…a sigh so heavy you almost want to reach out and take his wrist, run your thumb over his hand as a reassurance that you’re here for him.

Before you can take notion into further consideration, however, he rises from the bed, walks over to one of his closets. You set the guitar on the bed behind you as you watch him rummage. He comes back with a stack of papers in his hand, sitting down next to you again and handing them to you without looking at you. You look over him for any sign of what he’s thinking, but his face is disconcertingly blank. So you take the stapled packets and glance down at their contents.

“Soul Mark Removal.”

The world spins without you as the words register.

Soul mark removal…wasn’t unheard of. It wasn’t a common practice, but it WAS done. More often than not, it was done in cases of death—one’s soulmate passes away, staring at the black mark becomes too harsh of a reminder, the reminder is removed. Or if one’s soulmate has been diagnosed with something terminal, or has fallen into a coma with the likelihood of never waking up again; soul marks are removed to dull the eventual sting of life and love lost and the impact that has.

Rarely—VERY rarely—have you heard of cases of someone willingly having their unchanged soul mark removed. Buzzfeed hadn’t even done a video interviewing people who’d undergone such a procedure; that’s how rare such cases were.

You look back up at Ryan, still stone-faced.

It was something he’d been considering for a while. Had discussed with Helen. They’d been together for so long, and he was SO SURE she was just the one…he knows, he KNOWS he’s said “If I meet them, I meet them, if I don’t, I don’t” when it comes to his other soulmate, but he’d grown so GODDAMN tired of waiting, and SURELY if he and Helen weren’t meant to be, the universe would’ve told him by now.

Turns out, the universe is a bit of a bastard.

Yes, it had come up after Helen had found her mark and her soulmate. He was so desperate to try and keep things together. But it wasn’t fair. Not to her, and especially not to her dermatologist. No, she didn’t know him well…YET…but she knows him well enough to know that he does not deserve that pain, and the fact that Ryan would even SUGGEST she do such a thing…

…he’s not proud. Ryan’s voice cracks when he admits as much. Not proud. Just desperate, in love, and so So SO tired of waiting.

…he’s still considering it. He doesn’t say as much. Not out loud. But he looks up, and you just KNOW.

…now is when you tell him. Tell him, don’t do this. Show him. It’s me. I’m yours. You don’t have to wait. This is when you’re supposed to tell him.

And you…you just can’t. The words won’t come. Maybe it’s shock, you’re not quite sure.

You try another tactic. Ask him how his soulmate would feel if he DID go through with this. How they would feel to wake up and find their mark gone. Wonder what happened to their soulmate, if they were okay. What they did to make them feel like their soulmate had given up on them.

Ryan glances down. Considers your words. Possibly he’s wondering why your voice ran a little ragged near the end of your hypothetical situation.

As bad and as selfish as it’s going to sound, he finally admits, he just…doesn’t care anymore. Before, it was because of Helen. How sure he’d been with her. And now…he just doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want them. NEVER wants to find his soulmate. The universe has fucked him over enough with this. Fuck whatever else the universe has in store for him. He’d just rather not know.

You don’t know what to say to all of this. (You know what you WANT to say. What you want to do.) (You don’t.) (You know now how it’ll end if you do.)

Ryan sighs, running his hands over his face, through his hair.

He apologizes. He knows a lot of people can’t wait to find their soulmates and you’re probably in that park and he’s just…being a downer. …to put it lightly. He takes back the packets. He also apologizes for burdening you with this. The only other people who know are Helen and Shane. …he’s not even really entirely sure why he told you. Maybe because you’ve shared things with him you don’t want the world to know…like…you trust him enough with that. He feels like he can trust you enough with this. But he’s sorry nonetheless.

You won’t tell. The words feel choked but manage to sound normal.

Ryan smiles. For the first time in a long time, it seems, a genuine smile. It’s smaller, not as bright, but sincere. He thanks you. For listening. For being a friend. …and then he apologizes again because you just came here to edit in peace and he kinda ruined that.

You wave the apology away; you’re pretty much done editing, so it’s all good.

Ryan’s phone beeps. He picks it up to read whatever message he’s just received. He rolls his eyes, but in that fond “I’m pretending to be annoyed way”. It’s Kelsey. Sims Kelsey. She and YB and some others are going to a club tonight, and she’s wondering if he wanted to come; she’s trying to get a good group going. He bites his lip again.

He might go, he says more to himself than you. He needs to get out more…more than just the gym and work. Needs to try being social again. Maybe start living that single life again. He looks up at you, asking if you wanted to come. He can ask Kelsey if it’s okay if he brings a friend.

You shake your head as you stand. You need to get back to your place. They’re probably done power hosing by now, and you need to get the video posted. Besides, clubs aren’t your thing. But you hope he has fun.

As you pack up your laptop, he tells you he looks forward to watching the video. You pause before telling him he may not want to watch it until he feels ready.

***

Video goes up later that night. Your first request. You triple-check the username of the requester before posting.

Compliments start coming in on your cover of “When She Loved Me”. How aching and REAL it feels, how they swear they can almost see tears in your eyes near the end, how your “when she’d say ‘I will always love you’” felt like a kick to the gut.

The requester, especially, has gratitude beyond words for you. They’d just gone through an inevitable but no less tough breakup with their girlfriend, and how you sang the song just…hit every feeling perfectly. Reflected exactly how they were feeling, and wondering how you KNEW.

***

That night, videos and pictures pop up on various Instagram feeds—Kelsey’s, YB’s, Ryan’s, several people from Buzzfeed you don’t know well or have never met. Usual club shenanigans. Silly faces pulled for the camera, drinks toasted at the lens, inhibitions a little looser as bodies are pushed together to fit everyone in frame.

On your feed, one new picture goes up. A pair of scissors resting on a bathroom counter glints in the light, surrounded and slightly covered by masses of hair. There is no caption for the picture.

There are several comments of “badass” and “follow-up pics please and thanks”. A few “whoa’s” and o_O emoticons and emojis, which could be interpreted in a myriad of ways. And a smattering of people asking if you’re okay because cutting one's own hair like that is usually something someone does when they're upset about something.

***

Adam sends you a message, asking if you’re all right. The haircut is…jarring. He’s worried. He’ll be home soon, but it doesn’t feel soon enough. Please let him know you’re all right.

***

Your sister finds you curled up on the bathroom floor, surrounded by tufts of your hair and spots of red, leaning over your ankle. She drops to the floor and fights to get the scissors away from you before you can cut at your mark any more than you already have, what are you THINKING, Stop it, STOP.

And you scream and cry and curse as she dabs away the blood, apologizes for the sting of alcohol as she cleans your mark, asks you WHY, gathers you into her arms when you sob that this is what he WANTS, he doesn't WANT a soulmate anymore, he doesn’t want you, he’ll NEVER want you, he said so himself, you can’t tell him ever because even if he learns it's you, he doesn’t want you and he never will, and it just hurts SO MUCH and you want out. You want the pain to stop. This isn’t FAIR.

Your sister shushes you, soothes you, wipes tears away and strokes the uneven cuts in your hair, rocks you back and forth and assures you it’ll all turn out fine, you don’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it, you’ll see…

…you stare at your bleeding ghost. There is a small terrible part of you that hopes his ghost bleeds with yours.

***

You call in sick to work at the beginning of the week. You twisted your ankle over the weekend. Need to keep weight off it for a little while. (It’s half the truth…it DOES hurt to walk a little…)

You go to a salon, get your hair evened out. Your stylist’s reaction to what you’ve done: a hiss through the teeth and a tsk-tsk-tsk. You know. Do what you gotta do, you sigh.

It’s so short now…so very short…

***

The day/night Adam returns from Japan, he’s at your door at an ungodly hour with milkshakes and all of the Pocky.

He’s silent as you recount what Ryan’s said (omitting any mention or notion of soul mark removal). He winces at the sight of your healing ankle. He echoes the same gentle urging your sister gave you:

Just tell him.

You see the frustration glint in his eyes when you shake your head and you explain again why you CAN’T.

You don’t know he’s going to react that way, Adam argues. You know the longer you wait to tell him, the worse the fallout could be. What was it Ryan had said—at least Helen hadn’t led him on or hidden her mark from him? What have YOU been doing regarding YOUR mark?

You look at Adam before pointedly glaring at HIS ankle, then back up at him. What’s that about people in glass houses?

…even if you do DECIDE to tell, it’s still too soon after Helen. Those wounds clearly haven’t healed. Perhaps Ryan will change his mind, once again warm to the idea of finding his soulmate…but right now, you just can’t.

Let him take some time to enjoy the single life. The clubs. The close proximity to girls who are bubblier, prettier, more outgoing. Who don’t hack up their hair and their body in fits of self-loathing.

Whether you tell Ryan now or later, this won’t have a happy ending. You know it won’t.

***

You’re so caught up in this maelstrom that you don’t right away notice someone slip into your Instagram messages. Someone who says they’ve been getting requests from mutual fans to do a collab with you, but they had no idea who you were so they checked out a video of yours…and then accidentally binge-watched everything you’ve ever posted, oops. But you seem cool and have an amazing voice. You two should talk. Work something out. (By the way, love the haircut.)

…certain people in the comments section are gonna freak their shit.

**Author's Note:**

> ...yeah, get ready for this to turn into a crossover. Oops.
> 
> Yell at me over on tumblr at kittensmctavish. You know you want to.
> 
> Feedback welcome and appreciated (especially regarding the thing I mentioned above).


End file.
